


Maglor's lament for the lost Silmaril

by losselen (zambla)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blank Verse, Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-02
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-17 21:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1403260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zambla/pseuds/losselen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Maglor, in both obdurate pride and grievous lament, might have sung of the Silmaril. In blank verse unrhymed, after Paradise Lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maglor's lament for the lost Silmaril

O undiminished Light! Thou first of Trees divine  
Those twin empyreal fruits did birth, and forth  
By mighty craft distilled: their strands entwined  
In mingled dawn. Silmarils your final form--  
In hold impregnable, in shape and grace  
So infinite did reside thy Light  
Unfading. Light that wondrous love instilled  
In all who beheld the cool unbroken spheres  
whose substance pure did radiate within.  
Though peerless the twin Trees of Valinor:  
Yet still unequaled shone their colors twain  
In twilight joined. Their living hues did dance  
A mutual flame; as vibrant strings their Light  
Did harp the heart, and set the very soul  
In sundering song. By noble Fëanor’s hands  
Enjewelled and joined, as woven filaments  
Of threaded glass, and set in Silmarils  
Thy lucent wingèd Light that outshone all  
Other lamps and jewel. How paled the crafts  
Of lesser hands, before thy holiest Light!  
  
Yet lost, yet lost! that lost I the Silmaril!  
How moved thy Light, and how in poverty  
Of thy radiance my sight seems blind'd and vain.  
For Light I lost has lost me all of light;  
My eyes are orbs confined that harken not,  
They bathe in the dawn yet pay no heed the morn  
For levity false and joy offensive seem  
Before their robbèd memory.  
                                              And here  
I dwell, a houseless ghost: Of Sun and Moon  
Unfeeling, save their baleful cold. For what  
Is the Sun but a tainted shield, that daily dash  
Twixt ruddy courses, wearing burnished light  
That shines as true Light marred and stained.  
For same of the too inconstant Moon;  
The Moon by whom unhappy mortal Men  
Do count their changes. Light of his but wax  
And wane, and hold not the endless, flawless Light's  
Perpetual majesty.  
                                  I wander i' vain,  
In hopes of thee; perfection of thine  
Revisit yet. But having fallen thus,  
the most in misery is mine, having gain'd  
and lost our foremost holy Jewels and joy  
Immeasurable in earthly estimate.  
  
What woes have hunted since the seven sons  
Of Fëanor! Ai! no prouder people since  
Has dwelt in yonder Valinor, Aman  
No better sons. 'Tis true enough, that blood  
Our paths did stain, and treachery, and death,  
Yet think of us not faithless! For what faith  
Would come of breaking Oath paternal?  
Constant most of all must oaths of sons  
And brothers hold. So thereby we did take  
The ships, and bloodied hands did steer their masts,  
And angry minds their course; in wrathful flame  
The swans were swallowed. Bad blood multiplied.  
And few love we had for doubters e'er  
Of our thought and councils, who were slow  
To action yet quick to words when we  
Were thus beset.  
                                Yet once had we set foot  
In cold and wildered Arda did not my heart  
Misgive, and looked I behind our ranks, where West  
The wind came flying not, and Stars were veiled  
In mourning or wrath. And long I sang  
In that hour, to darkling Seas, of fate and glory!  
Yet ere I ended, slowly themes and chords  
Of fall and blood, our cruelty cold, and woes  
Unending, did stalk and weave among  
My words.  
  
                    We warred for long in wrath  
But were unwinning; splendid though we were!  
A hill of frost our swords had seemed, and flame  
Their bites did temper. Shields of ours had gleamed  
And held, as adamantine as resolve.  
Yet all for naught! Before the hated gates  
of the Enemy our father fell like a failing flame  
in the ashes. Ai, vaunting Fate, unhappy Fate  
Who sent us thus against the reign and will  
Of the Valar; drawn into War unceasing long  
And woes uncountable!  
                                           Brothers! Whereto  
Your allied spirits wander, i' pain or peace?  
Within a fiery depth has Maedhros gone,  
And borne in him was one of the Jewels of art  
Incomparable: I felt it thus. For flame  
Had tinged my thoughts, and yonder shone a Light  
Before my eyes, exceeding bright among  
A frond of stars. Into the earth's depths it  
Did plummet, now like a fire, and now like a hail.  
What madness drove us? Torment eternal  
My fate has won me: to roam disgraced the strands,  
Repentant, shamed, yet unreleased of Oath;  
For ever burns my heart its doomèd words.  
  
And so I do, and so I look: to West  
As I had done before. Reprieve I've none  
But memories of thy Light. How I have dreamt  
Of thee undimmed and blazing o'er the Sea  
In streaks of gold and silver. Hark! thy Light  
The very thieving waves do praisèd sing,  
And caught twixt Sun and Moon do I perceive  
The last of Three: at height unmoutable  
Above the livid waves in wrath of me.  
Its Light caress's my eyes, yet faint its beams:  
Reduce by distance thus, across so wide  
A space as 'tween the empyrean vault  
Where tremble the Stars of Varda, queen supreme,  
And the earth so lowly 'neath. O chance, or fate,  
Or strength of will—wherefore that he, in birth  
Of stations mixed, succeeds where mighty arms  
Have failed? For the children of noble Finwë  
Are scattered, and the sons of Fëanor dead.  
O holy Light, be moved to pity me,  
I stand on brink of the changed world still,  
With muted tongue I sing, yet words I've naught  
To mourn or praise your most beloved Light.

**Author's Note:**

> What hubris is this! While rereading _The Silmarillion_ and _Paradise Lost_ in quick succession I was struck with the mirror between Milton's Satanic host and Tolkien's Noldor in Middle-Earth. That both stories are movingly told (in part) from the point of view of the guilty seemed not accidental. Anyway, there it is, for posterity's sake.


End file.
